~ There's no metaphysics on Earth like dessert.

Category Archives: Fruit

Some people take the Euro approach to vacation, flying out in flocks come August. But for me, mid-April is when I defect. In particular, I like to get out of the country. This explains why I’m always in financial straits, but once you catch the travel bug, you are condemned to always yearn for new places.

This year, unfortunately, I am doomed to stay home while the people around me are enjoying the fjords, fronds, and fromage. I guess there could be worse things. Especially since New York is a great place to “fake it ’til you make it.”

So that is what I am doing. I commenced by heading to Buvette in the West Village, an adorable jewel-box of a restaurant that thankfully tastes as French as it looks.

Diet, Week 2. Haven’t ingested a baked, sugary good in more than fifteen days. Feeling well enough. More tired. Less energy. But good, so far.

That is, except for my social life, which has taken a huge hit. Going on a very restrictive diet for more than a week makes you realize just how much New York social circles revolve around food and drink. No happy hours with coworkers. No late night pizza with friends. No quick lunchtime business meeting. No afternoon rendezvous at a coffee shop. What did people do before restaurants, bars, and cafes? Ha, don’t laugh at me. I honestly had to sit and think about activities I could do with friends or coworkers that didn’t involve alcohol or foodstuffs.

There was one catch that I’ve been exploiting, which I have called the Smoothie Loophole. I can drink with friends, so long as the drinks are “virgin” and there is no added sugar. Tricky, and I may have inadvertently failed once, but I got the idea after I met my friend L. at the Lower East Side spot, Cocktail Bodega.

Readers, I have made a huge mistake. Well. Sort of. I went on a diet! No, it isn’t some silly thing to lose boatloads of weight, primarily through ingesting nothing other than cayenne-spiked lemonade. I embarked on this three week journey because recently my food choices have been wayward. There’s been too much takeout and too little healthy home cooking. And thus, a diet was born. It’s nominally a “detox” (I really hate this meaningless term) exclusion diet that prioritizes whole, natural foods over processed and artificial foods. Along the way it cuts out gluten, dairy, meat and poultry, and – gasp! – added sugar.

Luckily for all the Celiacs out there, New York is a veritable wonderland of delicious gluten-free desserts. Unfortunately, even a gluten-free, vegan dessert usually has some form of sweetener, like agave nectar. That’s a no-no for me. The phrase that comes immediately to mind is, “Trapped in a hell of my own making.”

Alright, things aren’t so bad. I’ve adjusted well. Kind of. I’ve only had minor cravings, probably because I don’t eat much processed food and have already cut down on meat in favor of vegetables. But the real conundrum – and believe me, it was a puzzle – has been what to blog about during this diet.

Finally, after a lot of menu searching, I found something that not only fit my dietary constraints, but was not simply fruit salad. The answer: the fruit kanten at macrobiotic spot Souen.

When Northern Spy Food Co. opened in the East Village in 2009, it immediately felt like a neighborhood institution, something that had grown organically with the greening and cleaning up of Alphabet City. For some, the grime east of Tompkins Square Park was part of the charm, one of the last gritty parts of lower Manhattan; for the newer implants, the arrival of a seasonally-minded restaurant, one that proudly (some might say obnoxiously) wears its purveyors on its sleeve, couldn’t come soon enough.

The interesting thing about Northern Spy Food Co. has been its insistence on maintaining a low profile, preferring to blend into the community rather than shine above it. Despite a glowing New York Times write-up in 2010 and constant appearances on “Best Of” roundups, Northern Spy Food Co. tends to eschew the spotlight, favoring homey Sunday Suppers and a lunch delivery service over glitzy publicity stunts and a haughty hostess stand. Really, the only pretentious thing about the place is their aforementioned insistence on listing farms and purveyors, but even that can be construed as earnest, not mimetic.

As such, you end up with a menu that is thoughtful and well executed, but ultimately comforting and filling. This is not fragile food, although some components are handled delicately. Yes, there is the obligatory kale salad, but it is shredded and showered with shaved clothbound cheddar. There are sticky buns, savory, stuffed with pork, iced with parsnip glaze.

One of the reasons I love New York City is the rapid change. Even in a bear economy, stores and restaurants bud, bloom, and then die, supplanted by the next new thing. It can be exciting and stimulating, manna for someone who thrills with the vibe of transition. But it also means that nothing can be held sacred. Old favorites can never be taken for granted, and the idea of a “classic” has an unusually temperamental tinge.

So when a colleague of mine suggested meeting at Café des Artistes for a leisurely lunch, I immediately recalled this history of this archetypal “Old New York” destination, opened in 1917 and renowned for serving some of the city’s elite.

Except that it wasn’t Café des Artistes anymore. It was reborn in 2011 as The Leopard at des Artistes.

Despite the jazzy, exotic new name, The Leopard at des Artistes maintains the stately feel of its predecessor. The large-scale murals covering the walls, a holdover from the Café days, remind you that this is still a place to bring your parents (or grandparents), assuming they are as well-heeled as the rest of the clientele.

If you are in the mood to linger and really want to treat yourself, The Leopard at Des Artistes is a perfect place to sit and enjoy a sumptuous dessert.

But choose wisely. The Leopard, despite its pedigree, has some standouts, but it also makes some rookie mistakes.

There are a lot of people who think brunch in New York is for lazy wastrels who would rather spend an hour and a half in line simply to pay three times more for their organic poached eggs and French toast than if they had taken the ten minutes to prepare them for themselves at home. To which I say: sometimes a person wants someone else to poach her eggs or French her toast for her.

And let’s not forget the inordinate opulence of brunch offerings. It’s not just an omelet; it’s an omelette with goat cheese, heirloom tomato, and chives. They’re not just pancakes; they’re lemon-ricotta hotcakes topped with macerated strawberries. Semantics, sure, but it is nice to feel indulgent for less than $20.

Then, every once in a while, you order a humble item that so exceeds its promise, you remember: this is why brunch in New York is worth the hassle and expense.

Something you should know about me: I have an affinity for almost any frozen dessert. Ice cream, gelato, custard, yogurt, even those concoctions of questionable chemical origin. If I can scoop it, I’ll probably enjoy it. This is not to say I don’t have discriminating taste – I do – but I believe that for every time and place there is an appropriate and complementary cold confection.

I’m especially spoiled. I live in Park Slope, where I have quick access to some of the most notable scoop shops in the city. If I want ice cream with a clever, textured twist, I go to Ample Hills Creamery. If I want a more refined, ultra-rich cone, I stop by Blue Marble. And if I am aiming for something a little cleaner and just a smidgen healthier, I go to Culture for their tangy homemade frozen yogurt.